


Red

by Silver_Centurion



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Romance, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Centurion/pseuds/Silver_Centurion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breakdown was forced to go to a club by his Wrecker buddies, and he expects to have a terrible time. Well, the night certainly didn't turn out like he expected it to when he meets the gorgeous mech he nicknames Red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't You Dare

The music thudded in his audials and the smell at assaulted him was saturated with pheromones and coolant. Hundreds of bodies were together in one small space, polished on highgrade, and swimming with sexual desire. Not necessarily Breakdowns kind of crowd.

One look at the place told him he was in for a headache, and he groaned inwardly when Wheeljack intertwined their arms, preventing his escape.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He jibed and pulled him inside as the other Wreckers filed in. The too small club seemed even smaller as the Wreckers towered over civilians and soldiers alike.

“’Jack please let me go,” he half groaned and half yelled so Wheeljack could hear him over the pounding music.

“Don’t be a valve Break. We deserve this. Go get polished you’ll forget all about it,” he added and gave Breakdown a too hard smack to the shoulder before wading into the bouncing crowd.

Funny, he had never pictured Wheeljack into mosh-pitting. He always had the impression that Wheeljack was just as introverted as he was, but clearly he was wrong. In fact most of the Wreckers made their way to the dance floor or wandered around to mingle. Only a few went straight for the bar, and Breakdown took Wheeljack’s advice and visited there first.

The stool creaked angrily, alerting the barkeep. He needed something strong. Something to knock him the frag out so he could get through this. The drink the tender gave him did the trick. It burned all the way down and settled in his tanks with a savory rumble. It tasted like insecticon waste fluids, but he wasn’t complaining as he downed the whole thing. Frag that felt good. Made his optics spark and lubricate, but still felt good.

Breakdown kept his optics trained on his glass as the high-grade did its work. The more he sat there the more the music wasn’t _as_ loud. It could still shatter an unwary audial, but it was tolerable. What kind of mech frequents these things anyway? How could any of them hear afterwards? It was a cesspool of music and purge, and he couldn’t stand the thought of staying all night, let alone coming back.

Tearing his eyes away from the half-polished swear words carved into the bar to risk a look around. Mechs of all shapes and sizes bounced to the music. It was a swirl of color, and Breakdown was sure that there were probably some ‘Cons mixed in there. Especially that guy. He looked like he was about to eat the poor mech he was dancing with. If he was an Autobot then Breakdown was the Prime’s consort.

A flash of something bright caught his optic. Red. So much red was moving through the crowd as if it was only an extension. Breakdown could only stare as a red mech sporting a sleek sporty model danced to the music. His movements were wild, fluid, sensual. He looked like he was having interface with an unseen partner.

His spark flopped over and sputtered out as he got a frontal view. Angular curves made the mechs natural beauty scream out to be noticed. Every light glittered off a paintjob that made Breakdown question his own morals. It was downright sinful.

Breakdown wasn’t the only one to notice. In fact most of the crowd seemed to be entranced by this mech who owned the stage. Others tried to join the Red beauty, and Breakdown felt his spark ache. It was like the academy all over again. A beautiful mech catches his optic, and they inevitably prove to be four times out of his league.

Another mech came up behind the red mech and boldly placed his hands low on his hips. Red’s optics, which had been closed, opened slightly only to close again as he dipped out of the mechs hands. Breakdown’s shuttered his optics as he watched Red wag a servo and shake his helm at the touchy mech in blatant rejection. He felt like an idiot as he watched Red simply dance as if the interruption never happened. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Red would reject the guy. Suddenly the easy looking beauty changed into something more intriguing.

Suitor after suitor came and went. Red didn’t even spare any of them a glance. Mechs, femmes, even a few minicons, were all rejected. It was like watching a slaughter holovid. Only with feelings instead of bodies. Was no one up to this beauty’s standard? Either Red was really snobby, already taken, or just plain was not interested in dancing with someone else. He didn’t act like a bonded mech. He danced too lively. He looked too wild. Untamable. Sure of himself and uncaring of others around him.

Breakdown couldn’t stop staring at Red’s face. The white was such a contrast, it made his features pop, and yet it didn’t look to be too much. It was the right amount of flash in Breakdowns opinion. It was a lovely contrast to Red’s dark optics which…..were staring right at him.

His spark thrummed in panic as their optics locked. His faceplate burned and he snapped his mouth shut. Slag how long had Red been looking at him? Frag he’d probably been sitting there drooling like an idiot! He wanted to look away, or run away, and hide his embarrassment at being caught staring so blatantly, but it was like Red had magnetized him to his stool.

Breakdown counted the thudding of his spark as Red’s optics finally broke contact to roam over Breakdowns frame. In reality he knew it must be a quick glance, but to him, in this moment, everything slowed to a crawl as his plating burned along the trail of Red’s optics. From his helm to his peds and back again. This time when their optics locked for a second time, Breakdown felt his intakes hitch, and he involuntarily leaned back as Red’s look felt like a physical blow.

A wetness on his chest and lap startled him out of Red’s spell. He jerked and frantically grabbled for the glass that he had knocked over in an attempt to contain the spill. The wet glass slipped from his shaking servos, and he juggled it in the air before it, inevitable, fell to the floor and shattered.

His face was no longer burning. It was melting from his clumsiness. Oh Primus, and he had done it in front of Red too. Wait, where was he?

Panicked, Breakdown looked back to where Red had been dancing and his spark dropped. The spot was empty. Breakdown turned back to the bar and resisted the urge to slam his helm into it. Idiot. Idiot! He had made optic contact with the most interesting, beautiful mech on Cybertron and ruined it. What was a great way to get beauties like that in your berth, or, pit, just even notice you? Let’s just fumble like a developing youngling discovering a femme for the first time. Yeah that’s sure to impress.

Groaning, he buried his face into his servos, vaguely aware that they were still covered in high-grade. Now he really needed a drink. Maybe a buy-mech. No, that would make him feel worse. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t attract someone like that. Red had rejected mech and femmes five times more attractive than himself. Why would Red even look twice at a scarred battle-mech like him? He was probably off dancing with someone he’d actually look good next too. With someone who deserved a mech that beautiful.

“Hi there,” a voice called beside him.

Breakdown peaked from behind his servos and his intakes hitched into a restart. It was Red. It was like staring at a ghost. A more beautiful up close, painfully sensual, ghost. This was a trick. Someone was pranking him. He drank more than he meant too and was hallucinating. He died! Any explanation was more plausible than this mech talking to him without being at gunpoint. The urge to hine behind his servos was a strong one.

Red raised an optic ridge, and those perfect lips curved in a smirk, “Yes you. Big guy, yellow optics. The one who can’t catch.”

Breakdown’s cheek plates burned but he forced his hands down. He was a fully grown mech for Primus’ sake. A socially awkward one sure, but fraggit he was still an adult. He could make a conversation.

“Uh.” _Nice. Nice self. You nailed it._

Red chuckled. It sounded like how expensive rust sticks tasted. Tangy, savory. “You’re quite the conversationalist,” he said and motioned behind him. “Wanna dance?”

**Dance**. The very word sent a shiver of dread down breakdowns spinal strut. No no no no no. He couldn’t dance. He had four left peds and a social anxiety the size of a Seekers ego.

He had to restart his vocalizer and even then it came out with static. “I-I can’t dance.”

Red made the cutest face—Breakdown couldn’t even tell what that face was but regardless—and let out another laugh. “Nonsense! Everyone can dance. There are no rules. Come on!” He hummed and took Breakdowns arm.

His legs felt like they were moving on their own. Physics and common sense told him that someone of Red’s size _shouldn’t_ be able to move him, and yet here he was being led into the danger zone as if he weighed no more than a sparkling. Having Red’s servos on his arm made him wanna scream—in a good way—but the approaching crowd of people made him desperately want to go back to his creaky bar stool.

“Don’t you dare look back,” Red said, catching his attention away from the bar.

“B-But,” he started, unsure.

“Just keep your optics on me,” Red commanded and Breakdown felt the familiar pull of those sinful optics.

“I…I can’t…” he stuttered as he tried to swim his way through that sea of red and black to find his own thoughts.

Red flashed a dazzling smile and said, “Shut up and dance with me.”


	2. A Little Insight

Knockout smiled as he pulled the big lug into the thick of the dancing crowd. Poor thing looked like he was about to release his oil pan. Those yellow optics tried to dart away, but oh no he wouldn’t allow that. He did not break optic contact as he started to pick up the pace. He was about halfway to the beat of the music, but still the big idiot kept staring at him.

Not that Knockout minded.

_No keep looking. Keep looking at me like I’m your entire world._

“Come on you big baby,” he cooed and grabbed the mechs servos. Mmm big ones too. “Start out slow.”

Using the big lugs servos as leverage, Knockout swayed him in at least some symbol of dancing. The others hulking frame made Knockout’s moves near impossible, but simple shuffling seemed to be right up his alley. His yellow optics softened as they swayed to their own pace.

Then the big fragger had the nerve to smile. It made his spark jump, and he refused to let his cheeks burn as brightly as they wanted.

“There you go,” he hummed and boldly placed the others servos onto his hips, “Getting better.” The look on his face was priceless.

The lug gulped and licked his lip plates, “You, uh…good dancer.”

So nervous he was forgetting his conjoining verbs. Precious.

“Not bad yourself big guy,” he returned and let go of the others servos when he was sure that he wouldn’t let go. In fact he did just the opposite. Knockout felt his grip tighten and couldn’t resist a smile. “Even if you can’t seem to move your lower body without almost knocking us over,” he added with a teasing look.

The other responded with a blush and a light smile before saying, “Sorry…I have three left peds.”

“Three? Where’s the other one?”

“Uh…that is a little inappropriate to show in public don’t you think?” He tried, with a dopey grin.

Knockout paused and then let out a rather undignified snort. Oh Primus he walked right into that one didn’t he?

Funny how this oaf even attracted his attention in the first place. He was big, blocky, not particularly handsome or exotic, and apparently had the sense of humor of a youngling. No, he was very unassuming if you overlooked his overall size. It wasn’t his looks that had caught Knockouts attention. It was his optics. Those optics stared at him like he was the only thing that existed. The only thing that _needed_ to exist. How can a gaze make him feel so empowered and yet so vulnerable? Like with a flick of his wrist he could break that gaze, break that amazement, and crush it under his peds. It was tempting to. That feeling in his tanks wouldn’t go away. The feeling of _being_ thatthis oaf was giving him was a little more than terrifying.

“You’re so fragging beautiful,” said oaf blurted with a flushed stutter.

Knockout blinked, but laughed despite himself.

_‘Keep talking big boy. Complements will get you everywhere.’_

His dance partner made a shy smile before a thick chuckle started to rumble out of his big chassis. Oh great now he was laughing too? Could be that they were both just nervous. One obviously more so than the other, but still nervous none the less.

Knockout hummed, unwilling to wipe the tears out of his optics and stood close. He laid his cheek plate on the others chassis and relaxed into their swaying. It was warm and oddly inviting. If he overstepped some sort of boundary than he didn’t care. The Oaf would have to get over it. His chassis was too damn comfortable.

If he did mind he didn’t show it. Knockout was wrapped in warmth and he didn’t care how odd it looked that they were practically waltzing during a rave.

“Is this alright?” He asked barely above the music volume.

“Y-Yeah,” the Oaf replied. Knockout could hear his engines rumbling in a soft rhythm that was infinitely more interesting than the music.

It was nice to just stand there and sway with another body. Knockout may be a bit promiscuous in his spare time, but he wasn’t an animal. Even ‘Cons like himself liked a little cuddle time every now and again. Well, not all ‘Cons. Knockout was a bit alone in that respect. He’d always been a bit too soft for the others in his faction. Sure he liked dismembering Autobots as much as the next mech, but he also liked soft touches, complements, and, most of all, attention. Did this make him odd? Maybe for a Decepticon. But here, in a club where labels were either hidden or unmentioned, he could just enjoy himself for a moment. In the arms of a big, warm, mech that had the optics of a curious prowling, shoulders broad enough to block Knockouts entire view of the room, and a modesty plate that looked _just a little too big._

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Would you frag me?” he asked up at his larger partner.

Blue bloomed across the Oafs face as he seemed to choke on his own intakes.

“What?” he asked with a startled yelp.

“If I took you to a back room, right now, would you frag me?” he asked again.

The larger mech’s fans shuttered and sputtered as he tried to formulate some form of speech, “Duh I…with um…i-er…” he cleared his intakes and gave it another go.

“I would…in a…in a sparkbeat,” he finally choked out, still nervous, but his lips pursed with a stern look.

Knockout was a tad surprised. Someone so timid and clumsy didn’t seem the type to accept such an open invitation for interface.

Even still, it made him smile.

“Well,” he began and pulled back to look up at the—still blushing mind you—mech, “It’s been at least five sparkbeats. What are you waiting for?”

The Oaf looked like he was going to blow a gasket, that earlier façade gone, “W-What, now? Like right now?”

Knockout feigned innocence, “Isn't that what you said? In a sparkbeat? Unless you don’t want—“

“No! Uh I mean, erm, I do. I would! Uh,” he stalled to take a quick scan of the room, his yellow optics brightening with a mix of fear and, perhaps, excitement, “Follow me.”

His big servo wrapped loosely around Knockouts own as he used his girth to his advantage. He made like a bulldozer and moved dancers out of the way as they made for the less populated parts of the club.

Again, Knockout was surprised at the Oafs eager response. Timid as the big guy seemed, he definitely was a fully grown mech. If he was too embarrassed for interfacing then, intriguing gaze or not, Knockout didn’t think he could get it up for the world. Timid was cute. A wimp or coward was a turn off.


End file.
